


Stronger in the Contrast

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: BAMF Rodney, M/M, Pining John Sheppard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:21:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just—this is John’s job. He’s the one who does the derring-do, who rescues the damsels—and Rodney, who pretty much qualifies as a damsel, according to Atlantis’ personnel—who is expected to act like a pretty Prince Charming, sacrificing himself so that everyone else is safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stronger in the Contrast

John knows that Rodney is brave. He _knows_ it, deep down, the way he knows that he needs air to breathe, that he loves fast cars and faster planes. It’s not something he has to think about. It’s not something he’s _ever_ really thought about, if he’s honest with himself, which happens pretty damned rarely. He’s always understood, instinctive and subconscious, that all those fountaining words, the bluster that Rodney paints himself with is just that: words and bluster, a lie Rodney’s convinced himself with, and about as shallow as a kiddie pool.

“I’ll do it,” John raps out.

Across from them, a trio of be-robed women look at him solemnly. They’re something out of a Greek frieze. “That is unacceptable, Colonel Sheppard.”

“Like hell it’s unacceptable. There’s no way that—”

“You do not understand,” the tallest one says. Her hair is twisted up into elaborate braids and in another situation, John would be fascinated—he’s always had a thing for women who made their hair behave. “It is already done.”

His stomach drops. _“Done?_ What the hell does _done_ imply, exactly?”

From his position by the window, Ronon grunts something pained. “He left an hour ago, Sheppard. It’s already started.”

* * *

It’s a game, or that’s the closest John can approximate their term of _mistakat_. Teyla had said _trail_ or _test_ during the initial exchange, but she’s off playing the distressed princess in the tower for this particular _test_ so John doesn’t bother using her words. Besides, if it were a real trial they wouldn’t have snatched up Teyla—heavily pregnant Teyla, previously cooed and bowed over during dinner the night before—and used her as the damned bait.

After arguing for nearly an hour—they can stop this idiotic _mistakat_ if they wanted to—John swallows against a throat gone tight and sore. “Look,” he says, wheedling. “He’s a _scientist_. He doesn’t know this kind of stuff.”

The tallest of their three guides, the ones who’s designated herself as liaison, gives him a long look. “He carries a weapon, as does the rest of your team.”

“Rodney can’t hit the broad side of a barn! He’s not a threat.”

“And yet, it is him who desires this knowledge so very much.” Shielding, of course. Rodney’s favorite albatross, that elusive hint of knowledge that drives him like a pair of sharp spurs in his softest parts. Even more than the hunt for power supplies, Rodney wants the technology to hide, to defend.

It’s the most warrior-like part of him, although John doesn’t bother telling that to anyone. No one but maybe Elizabeth would understand, and she’d never needed the words.

“Of course he wants it,” John grates. “He’s a _scientist_ , he wants knowledge. That’s his—his _thing_. But it’s up to me, all of us, to help him get it.”

Across the room, the third woman—pretty, with blonde hair in a straight sheaf down her back—titters suddenly. “So eager you are, to champion him.”

“He’s not a warrior! He’s not—you want him to travel through a forest full of animals that _kill_ , without any weapons but that stupid pig-sticker you gave him, then play conquering hero to get Teyla out of wherever you’ve stashed her!”

Saying it out loud only highlights how ludicrous it is. How _easy_ it would be, for John or Teyla or Ronon. Hell, for anyone but Rodney who starts at his own shadow even now, four years after awkwardly putting on the trappings of a soldier.

The blonde gives him an arch look. “Do you think we would allow him to die?”

“I’m not willing to find out!”

“Ardra!” the taller one snaps. “Do not torment the Colonel so. He is unfamiliar with our ways.”

“He is unfamiliar with many things, Ler. See how the other one does not fuss.”

Only because Ronon’s already mapped out the quickest way to kill them all, John knows. Ronon’s pretty one-track when it comes to certain things. 

Rubbing his forehead, John settles into the long benches that are incredibly uncomfortable and the only kind of seating available. “Would you let him die?” he asks, once he’s certain he has control of his voice. It takes a while.

Ler and Ardra look at each other, a silent communication that doesn’t fill John with anything like relief. “We would not purposefully allow him to come to harm,” Ler says, eventually. “However, death is a possible outcome.”

“And Teyla?” Ronon moves fast, so fast when he wants to, blurring as he catches Ler around the throat, shaking her. “Would you allow her to die, too?”

Ler chokes, but still manages to wave Ardra and the unnamed third away. “She is not the one seeking knowledge.”

It’s the most complete answer they’ll get, and they both know it. Ronon lets her go, skulking back to his perch on the window, overlooking the dark expanse of forest that Rodney is struggling through. It’s something out of _Sleeping Beauty_ , John mentally adding arm-thick vines full of thorns capable of piercing a man’s heart to the crawling darkness that is different than any forest he’s seen outside of cartoons. It breathes menace along with carbon dioxide, a palpable shadow that has John shivering, frightened for Rodney who is more susceptible to these kinds of mind-tricks. Rodney, who doesn’t like being dirty, doesn’t like pushing his body with the same bright, blinding fervor that he uses to push his mind.

“He left without telling us,” John says quietly.

Ardra gives him a pitying look. “Foolish male,” she says, “he _asked_ us not to tell you.”

* * *

Carter’s voice is full of static, thanks to the shielding only grudgingly lowered for their communication. It makes her sound even more emotionless. “We need this technology, John. We just have to hope that Rodney knows what he’s doing.”

She doesn’t say _trust_. Elizabeth would say that, but her play-book came with a different set of rules and regulations. “They get until tonight,” he says, hating how raspy it sounds to his own ears. Fill it with static and he’s sure it’ll say all kinds of things he doesn’t mean.

Ardra’s watching him.

“The forest is shielded, correct?” Carter asks.

“Yes.”

“John—”

“They get _until tonight_ ,” John repeats. Denying him the ability to storm this stupid planet with puddlejumpers and armed soldiers doesn’t mean he’s helpless. He’s going to march into that damned forest himself and rescue Teyla, Rodney, hell, he’ll slay a dragon if he has to.

There’s no visual but Carter’s voice conveys the glare pretty clearly. “Check in in another two hours,” she snaps and the connection dies.

“You worry so,” Ardra comments. “It’s delicious.”

John clenches his jaw so tightly it aches, the pain the only thing that stops him from whirling around and shooting the blonde bitch. “It’s been twelve hours,” he grits. Twelve hours with no contact. Twelve hours where John and Ronon are treated to _dancing girls_ —or they would’ve been, if John hadn’t roared for them to get the hell out—platters of food whirled before them, the empties quickly replaced. 

Ronon eats because he never passes up food.

John eats because Ronon glares at him long enough.

“Twelve hours is not so bad, for a _mistakat_. Our fastest time ever is just over nine hours.”

That’s the _fastest?_ John rubs his face, scrubbing through his hair. They’d offered him a bath—a soak, really, gesturing to a hallway that had echoed with a metallic tang—and he wishes he could take them up on it. He’s always had a fondness for it, since visiting Colorado.

Maybe, he thinks, of Rodney comes out of this okay and he doesn’t have to nuke the whole _planet_ for pissing him off, John’ll take Rodney down there and they’ll—

Um.

Ardra laughs, a rich bubbling of laughter that isn’t nearly as mocking as it could be. “So foolish, pretty man. You look as if I have slapped you. Are they good thoughts?” Pushing to her feet, she takes his arm in an iron grip. “Come, you have spoken to your leader and there is still much time before we should worry. In another hour, I will let you speak to _La_ Emmagen, again, so that you may be assured of her comforts as well.”

John lets himself be led. It’s easier, really, as is thinking about Teyla, resting on a divan she swears is the most comfortable piece of furniture she has found since her pregnancy, offered as many choices of entertainment and fine dining as John and Ronon had been during her wait.

_“It is not unreasonable for them to require some surety, John,” she’d said, reclining so that her growing stomach was all that John could really see. “It is Rodney who pressed them with many questions, offering them anything they might wish so long as he could study with their wise-women. It is right that he should be the one to prove his intentions.”_

_“Come on, Teyla, it’s_ McKay! _Of course he wants whatever he can get his greedy little hands on, and it’s always us who does the paying.”_

_Teyla’s look had been as full of things as Ardra’s, an uncomfortable sting John hadn’t needed. “That is an unworthy statement, John. So far, they have treated us with much respect. Please, we must have faith in Rodney.”_

And that’s the kicker, of course. That’s why Ronon is frustrated with him, stalking out of the room where John’s pacing a groove into pretty blue mosaic tiles. This isn’t beyond the scope of Rodney’s skills, not at all. Sure, he’s probably babbling non-stop and furious that he has to do this, and promising death to everyone he can possibly name when he gets back, punishment for Rodney having to do this kind of derring-do, but it’s not unreasonable to ask this of him.

It’s just—this is _John’s_ job. He’s the one who does the derring-do, who rescues the damsels—and Rodney, who pretty much qualifies as a damsel, according to Atlantis’ personnel—who is expected to act like a pretty Prince Charming, sacrificing himself so that everyone else is safe.

He feels cheated. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself he’s feeling, because he has no idea what this lump of _badness_ tightening at the base of his stomach might be, otherwise.

Ardra watches as John stalks his way down the halls, once again pacing when they’re in the room Ler promises is not a prison, and yet they cannot go anywhere else unescorted. “Is he so unable, this scientist of yours?”

John ignores her. She’s been trying to bait him for a while now.

“He has strong arms and a powerful frame,” she muses, tapping her lower lip. “I would not think him so weak.”

He isn’t weak. He’s anything but weak. But he’s also a scientist, and he shouldn’t have to put new calluses on his hands. He shouldn’t have to sweat and worry and run, not when John’s so much better at all of those things.

“In fact, should he return successfully, there will be a great feast in his honor. Many will wish to share in his favor.” Her smile was sharp and provocative, a slithering lie in red. “Perhaps I will add my name as well. Certainly, the way he looked at me this morning... ”

John snarls— _snarls_ —whirling around in time to see her tip her head back in laughter.

“No,” she says, hands up and gasping for air. “I am sorry. I should not tease you so, not when your fear is genuine. Please, Colonel, accept my apologies.”

Skin still sparking in anger—fear, that’s _fear_ , she’s right, although for what he doesn’t know—John turns back to the window he’s never away from for long and looks back to the winding path where Rodney will appear when he’s done. Teyla isn’t to come back with him, apparently, he’s just supposed to ‘rescue’ her—deference for Teyla being pregnant, maybe? It didn’t sound that way when they’d explained, but then, John knows he isn’t remembering very clearly.

The lip of white-rimmed brown remains damningly empty.

Ten hours, now. Ten hours and still Rodney’s gone.

It’s a good thing their moon is almost too bright. John doesn’t imagine he’ll get a lot of sleep tonight.

* * *

“Oh, isn’t this just precious,” a voice snaps above him. “Look at him, he’s even got his fist tucked up under his chin. Just typical. I go out and do _his job_ , do it better than he probably ever could, and he gets to _sleep_ and don’t think Teyla didn’t tell me about the dancing girls. Only you could get _dancing girls_ while I got to traipse around a forest like I was some sort of Mountain Man or something equally idiotic. There were _lions_ in that forest, Sheppard! Great big things with teeth the size of my _arm!”_

John’s eyes open slowly. His brain isn’t working so well, because he’s pretty sure that sounds like Rodney. Except Rodney’s still on his stupid trail to prove his worthiness, so it can’t be Rodney. John automatically looks out the window, studying the pink-hued sky and the familiarly taunting bit of trail, as unmarked as it had been the last time he looked, just minutes before.

Except it’d been night, then. John remembers the way the moon had gilded everything, making it hard to look at for too long.

He stares at the sun until his eyes hurt.

“Fine,” the voice behind him grumbles, and there’s a hint of real hurt underneath all the exasperation. “Fine, ignore me. Thanks so very much for your support, Sheppard. Now if you’ll excuse me, I smell like I’ve been fighting my way through a forest and trying to figure out how to outsmart a bunch of soldiers with only a really sharp knife.”

Rodney. Really Rodney, and really _here_ , and really hurt, because John’s staring out the window like an idiot, wondering when he’d fallen asleep and how he’d slept through Rodney’s return.

He stops thinking. If he was thinking, he’d turn around and say something lazy and just cutting enough that Rodney would sniff and perversely be less angry with him. If he was thinking, he’d remember that there are other people in the room, like Ardra leaning against the door jamb wearing a smile made of razors, and the voices of Teyla and Ronon, talking quietly just out of sight.

But he’s not thinking. He’s not thinking at all.

Scrambling to his feet, John _dives_ , ignoring Rodney’s shout of surprise, then his grunt of pain as he collides with a wall, because it doesn’t matter. Rodney’s _here_ , and he’s okay, and he is never ever doing anything like this ever again, at least not without John to go with him, a promise John seals by putting his mouth over Rodney’s.

He tries to talk for a few seconds, the way Rodney always tries to talk, but John’s prepared for that. An open mouth is an open mouth, and John wants to crawl inside, wants to never stop tasting coffee-copper, sucking on Rodney’s agile, mobile tongue, chasing after it eagerly. This is his, he thinks, kissing as hotly, as wetly as he can, branding Rodney’s mouth with his. This is always going to be his, and he just needs to convince Rodney of it, the sooner the better.

Eventually, John’s aware that Rodney is making soft, mewling noises whenever John sucks on his lower lip, so he does that a lot. He’s aware that the room feels curiously dead, like it’s no longer filled with people who aren’t Rodney, and therefore pretty damned unimportant. He’s also aware that Rodney’s hands are big and hot, rucking up his shirt to touch John’s back, fingers tensing rhythmically as they run up and down his spine.

The desperation fades as Rodney kisses back, just as eager, just as wanting. It’s reassuring and eventually, the need for air finally kicks in and they break apart—slowly, so slowly, leaning against each other and panting in each other’s faces.

“So, um,” Rodney says. His eyes are blurring together until they’re one, a thin rim of blue around fathomless black. “Hi.”

John kisses him again, just a brush of their lips together and soft enough that his breath stutters in his own throat. There’s no planning to this, and for once, he doesn’t seem to give one single damn about it. “Hey. Have fun playing the conquering hero?”

“It was okay.” Rodney frees a hand to trace over his face, rubbing against stubble that’s left red marks all around his mouth. John tries not to lean into the touch; he’s always loved to be touched like this. Eventually, Rodney adds, “I got the girl and everything.”

“Mark of a hero, right there. Always getting the girl.”

“Too bad she can’t reward me properly.” Rodney says, and his smile is shy—shy!—and hopeful as he nuzzles back towards John’s mouth, initiating the kiss.

“That’s okay. I don’t mind taking over.” John has to go on his toes to get the right angle, but that’s okay. He doesn’t mind, so long as he gets to watch Rodney’s eyes flutter shut, his body relaxing as he lets John kiss him, and kiss him, introducing both of them all over again. “So how does the hero want to do this?”

“Maybe in a bath? Or after one? I’m—well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I can’t smell anything right now. I don’t know how you _are.”_

John gives him a final kiss and lets him go—which takes far more strength then he expects, especially when Rodney’s face falls. “Hey, Ardra,” he calls. She’s not here, which surprises the hell out of him. After basically calling him a moron for not seeing it, he figures she’d want to watch for as much as possible. “Can we go use those springs, you mentioned?” To Rodney, he throws a wicked look. “I can hold my breath for a really long time.”


End file.
